


Count the Saints

by ofwickedlight



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dreams and Nightmares, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), POV Fenris (Dragon Age), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22618186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofwickedlight/pseuds/ofwickedlight
Summary: What do you remember?The answer was the calmest wave, rising in him.(Or, Fenris dreams an old dream, and wakes to a new one.)
Relationships: Fenris/Male Hawke
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	Count the Saints

**Author's Note:**

> It's been years since I've written a Dragon Age fic, and my first time tackling anything from DA2 canon, so I hope everything checks out. :)

* * *

The lyrium glowed, as it always did. Tangled through his skin, clenching, choked. Choked, and Fenris had no voice. Behind his lost, fraying mind, he wondered what sounds would race from his throat, if he let them. A scream, a cry. A wretched, begging sob. It did not matter. Any, all of it would make lustful eyes darken, that smile stretch further, that damp breath haze over his scarred skin more, forever, endless, _now._

 _You’re mine,_ Danarius said. He was here, as he always was. Vines of lyrium twisted around them, sharp and digging, but it was nothing compared to those eyes, and that breath, that fucking _breath._ Pants, and grunts, and the heat of it, seeping into his scars. Singing.

And underneath the song, creaking bedposts.

Eyes snapped open, and Fenris gasped, up, awake, frantic, watching, _searching_ , and the sheets were chains, and the bedposts were cages, and they were there, still _there,_ still there, _still—_

Fenris lurched, heaved, but no vomit left him, only dry heaves, only emptiness, and moans, and ragged rasps. He leaned over the bed’s edge, breath flying out of him—

And then a palm, pressed against the middle of his back.

Fenris whirled, ready to fight, ready to plead and scream, because never again, _never again_ —

The eyes were warm where his glowing veins were cold. Amber amongst the blue haze, the blur of unshed tears.

“Fenris,” said Garrett. His voice was harps in a storm.

The building roar died in Fenris’ throat, and he could only blink. Stare.

Garrett was here.

Garrett.

Here.

In _Danarius’ bed._

Rage twisted with fear, and Fenris couldn’t speak, couldn’t think of how they’d gotten here, captured, _found,_ couldn’t reach for his sword, scream—only clutch at Garrett’s arm with shaking hands. Only beg. “G—” The name hung in his throat. He dug his nails in Garrett’s skin.

Garrett didn’t fight him. Slow, gentle hands grasped Fenris’ shoulder, unfazed by the danger, and the _fool,_ how could he think—

“Fenris.” His voice was hushed, soft, too soft, too calm. “What is it?”

Fenris tried to speak. The breath left through short flutters, birds flying in, out, nothing. His eyes darted to the door. Closed. It would open soon, he knew—he _knew,_ and Garrett needed to _go._

“ _Leave,_ ” he choked out. “If... if he…” _If he touches you, I could not bear it. Go,_ please.

Garrett’s pretty amber eyes watched him, wide and panicked. Panic for _Fenris_ , though, not himself, and no, no, _he couldn’t stay here._

“He _can’t see you_ ,” Fenris said, because he _couldn’t,_ because—

Strong palms cupped Fenris’ neck, and for half a breath, the fear fled. “There’s no one here, Fenris. You were dreaming.”

“No,” Fenris whispered. “No, you have to—”

“I’m fine,” Garrett said. “It was only a dream. Look around you.”

Fenris looked. Moonlight, gleaming on crimson curtains that draped over wooden floors, polished and clean, if not for a mabari’s muddy pawprints. A bed, large and silken, sheets kissing them both. Garrett’s bed. Garrett.

Garrett.

Calloused fingers found his cheek. “We’re safe, Fenris,” he said, voice flowers after frost. “We’re home.”

_Home._

Fenris was going to cry. He bit back the whimper, clutched his fists around the bedsheet, shut burning eyes.

Warmth cradled him before the sob could fly away. Garrett’s arms, Garrett’s chest, strong, soft, hiding him, _Garrett_. “Fenris,” he murmured, breath blooming the softest kisses on Fenris’ ear. “Tell me.”

Fenris buried his face in Garrett’s neck, shuddered. He could not deny Garrett, never had, never would, but the name stuck in his throat. And why say it, anyhow? Danarius was dead, gone, a gorged, weeping heart in Fenris’ glowing, clenched palm, ash through Garrett’s burning fingers, charred, swept, wind, _gone._ He had come for Fenris, but Garrett had saved him, reminded him, _showed_ him what he was now. Not a slave. Not this. Not this.

And yet.

Fenris pulled away from the safeness, the warmth, met Garrett’s eye. He could not run from this, would not. “Old times,” he croaked. “From... before.”

Fenris saw it before he could hide it—the overwhelming grief that welled in Garrett’s soft eyes, that dulling amber, that sinking liquid gold. It hardened in a breath. Garrett let out the smallest sigh, a mourning. “Tevinter,” he said.

Yes. Tevinter. Eons. Leto. Varania. Mother. Eons. Now. “Tevinter,” Fenris said.

Garrett looked past Fenris, stared into the silk. Silence. The same silence that loomed over them when Danarius gave Garrett his offer. That same stare.

Ice spidered through him. Did he regret denying Danarius, and choosing—

Garrett met his eyes, and the doubt within Fenris died like fire in rain. “Fenris,” Garrett said, and his name had never sounded so soft. “What do you remember?”

It was not a cruel question, but a horror to answer, voice, see, face. So clouded, once, lashings and damp breath just beyond the grey, with his rage and the coldness of chains red enough to see, and know, and feel forever. That was when he’d been kind to himself. When he remembered to forget. But the clouds were faded now, thin mist laced with the faintest screams and creaks, and the mourning eyes of Varania and Mother as his chains clinked, and _creaks,_ and every touch and shame and hurt, and—

And.

Garrett.

 _Garrett._ Standing in the clouds. Standing in that fading mist, too. Always clear, not grey, not red, but bright, and there, and _smiling_. He had always smiled at Fenris, even in the beginning. Even when there was nothing given but scowls and sneers and shattered wine glass.

 _What do you remember?_ The answer was the calmest wave, rising in him.

“You,” Fenris said, and it was only half a lie. _I want to remember you, only you._ Him. Garrett.

One word, only one, and it was enough to earn Fenris that thing of beauty—Garrett’s smile. Softer than it had ever been, so gentle it summoned the deepest pang in Fenris’ chest. “We all have unwanted memories,” Garrett said, voice kindness and knowing all at once, “but we can fight them by calling forth those we hold dear. It’s our light in the darkness.” He ran a hand through Fenris’ hair. “Whenever my pain threatens to take me, I remember _you,_ Fenris. Nothing brings me home more.”

Fenris could say nothing. Only stare, only ache, only feel his stinging eyes, hear those three words pooling within his heart, but left unspoken. Did nothing, just saw those amber eyes, let out a hitched breath, looked away, because it was too much, and he _couldn’t_.

Garrett didn’t need words. He reached for him. Strong warrior-mage’s hands grazed Fenris’ skin, kissed his arms, his wrists, his hands. The lyrium in his veins rose at the beckoning, breathed like moonglow, lit the darkness with hazing blue as Garrett channeled the faintest hint of warmth into him—not to hurt, or own, only to soothe, only to calm, and how was it that his power was so beautiful to him, filled him with welling tears and sighs rather than hatred? How was it that he had only ever existed, only lost, only loved, only pained, to reach this, know this, _feel_ _this?_

Fenris did not know. He did not know, but suddenly his skin met silken pillows, and they were down, and the bed did not creak at all. Garrett held him closer, arms gentle yet tight, as if to soften, but anchor. And anchor he had. _You’ve undone me,_ Fenris had told him, all those moons ago. He remembered that. He remembered it all.

He remembered Garrett.

Fenris closed his eyes. They rained through his mind then—every stream of color, every dew of light, every sight that watered him.

Every memory.

He would count them.


End file.
